


Things I Liked about You

by Links



Series: Things I Liked about You [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 05:24:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9369905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Links/pseuds/Links
Summary: "I’m supposed to write the things I liked about you. So here is the bloody list. And for once in your life, Sherlock, do shut up and let me speak."An idea I was unable to get rid of, so here it is, while I'm thinking about TAS' next chapter.Rated M for innuendo.I do hope you'll enjoy!EDIT : As a sequel entitled Everything You Need Me to Say will soon be up on this site, I've decided to change the status of this work as part of a series. See you soon for the sequel :) More information about it on my Tumblr.





	

Dear Sherlock,

 

Or should I have started with “Dear ruddy Bastard”? “My beloved Nuisance”? You wouldn’t have liked that, would you – too much  _sentiment_ for your taste.

I could just imagine your reaction if I said that aloud in your presence – waving your arms like a madman while ranting at me about the many inadequacies of the human nature.

Actually, it’s one of the things I liked about you, even if I never had the balls to tell you when you were here, beside me. Maybe I was afraid then you would stop if you knew.

Maybe I was afraid you would see me for what I really am. Demobed soldier, clumsy writer, (“ _Really, John, the title you found for this article… Even a trained monkey could do better!_ ”) a man in his mid-thirties vehemently repeating that he’s not gay while hopelessly infatuated with his very male flatmate.

In short – a fool.

…

But that’s not the point of this letter, is it?

I’m supposed to write the things I liked about you – Ella’s orders, you know.

You don’t? Damn you, Sherlock, you can’t have her deleted again! Not when I get thrice a week in her office, cooling my heels in her waiting room.

So here is the bloody list. And for once in your life, Sherlock, do shut up and let me speak.

 

What I  ~~loved~~  liked about you?

The way you got me as soon as you laid eyes on me. With your first question – “ _Iraq or Afghanistan?_ ” – you woke me up from the shadowy world in which I have tumbled since my trip back home. You gave me a way out while I was still fighting with my demons. You never let me go – not until much later, anyway.

The way you made me feel when we were chasing criminals and other riffraff in the great maze of London. Blood pumping with adrenaline, heartbeat hitting the roof, fingers itching to seize our prey by the collar… Surely beats a Friday evening before the telly or down by the pub!

(I can see you frowning and muttering about my plebeian speech, don’t think I can’t!)

You were a dangerous man, Sherlock Holmes. And I loved every second I spent with you.

~~Oh hell, I can’t anymore…~~

No. Carry on, Captain, duty calls.

 

I liked your voice. Do you know how many fantasies have sprung to my mind, whether you were deducing at top speed everything you observed about the visitor who has just sat down in your armchair or teasing me over a meal shared together? When I was in this state, aroused and dying of shame at the same time, I knew that if you ever had the fancy ordering me about, I would have obeyed without any restraint.

(“ _Come closer, John and let me use your mouth as I see fit…”)_

But you never said these words and I was too much a coward to do anything about it.

 

I know, Ella, you told me weeks ago to stop with the self-reproach. It’s not your fault, John, and all the rot you feel compelled to say under similar circumstances. You don’t realise I’m heartily sick of all that.

But back to my letter. Sherlock deserved all the words I was unable to let out when he was still here, with me.

 

I missed the intimacy we shared. Our steaming mugs of tea next to each other. The quiet, lazy Sundays between bouts of mad last-minute dash and brilliant detective work. Me, laboriously typing our most recent adventures (“ _When will you learn to use all your fingers, John?”_ ) while you were brooding (“ _Dying of boredom here!”)_ or playing on your violin. I missed the glances we stole at each other, the delicious uncertainty permeating our flat of Baker Street, that feeling of _possibility_.

Or was it just in my head?

 

Really, Sherlock, did you ever realise I loved everything about you? Even when you were rude to grieving parents, even when you snarled a terse reply to me (“ _Use your brain, John, if you have one!_ ”), even when Lestrade’s colleagues called you freak and asked me how I can stand you…

Even when you were gatecrashing without any remorse my so called “dates”.

 

I loved you. There, I've said it. Took me long enough.

No, let’s correct this – I _love_ you.

Because my tiny, ordinary brain refuses to accept your death.

Deep denial, according to Ella, resisting everything – Mycroft’s terse condolences, Mrs Hudson’s tears, even the pitying glances Lestrade threw my way.

I can’t seem to let you go, you mad bastard.

(“ _Look at me, John! Look at me!”)_

 

Weeks have passed and I’m still waiting for you. For your step in the stairs, for your smile, for your voice saying…

Saying everything I need to hear, really.

So come back to me.

Come back and I will finally be brave enough to say aloud all these things, all these words I have written in this bloody letter.

 

Always Yours.

 

John.


End file.
